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There are no bombs falling

By Renee Hills, a personal musing in response to the first weeks of war in Ukraine.


There are no bombs falling

On the green trees

Standing tall around my house.


But in sleep, distant rumbles of thunder

Or my husband’s soft snores.

Jerk me awake, heart pulsing,

Frantic images and sounds,

Exploding buildings, sirens screaming,

Humans huddled in basements,

Or defending isolated villages

Wondering how to eek

Rice and flour for another week.

A baby’s muffled cry freezes in the air

Fear, terror, a stifled shriek

Stuck in the base of my throat

Rages at a force that aims

To kill, destroy and maim.


I limit news exposure.

Take calming breaths.

Drink peaceful tea.

My mind ignores all that.


Instead plays ancestral memories

Distant thunder of artillery,

Lightning flashes of gunfire.

In the hills south of Faedis

Soldiers gassed the air,

Invaded Nonna’s house.

Ate the winter preserves,

Cow, pig and hens.

Made fire with the furniture.

1917. Starving, freezing.

She turned 14.


War is madness

Created by damaged men.

Grief, pain and loss

Absorbed by women

Who lived on like Nonna,

Smiling, loving children

And grandchildren,

Trauma hidden in our blood.


There are no bombs falling

On the green trees

Standing tall around my house.

Repeat

There are no bombs falling

On the green trees

Standing tall around my house.



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